From the earth is he,
As risen as the firma cracks,
From molten fingers gently piercing,
Into fissures steaming;
Formless to begin and loud,
Each tendril reaching out,
For the purchase of life,
Crying out for light;
Softer now but surer,
Awakened eyes roam,
Across new vistas,
A soul made out of stone;
Against the skies,
His silhouette breaks,
Arms aloft in silence,
To wait out the end;
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